


That Spark We Feel

by willowswhiten



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Music, Anxiety, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 12:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15995549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowswhiten/pseuds/willowswhiten
Summary: In an alternate universe, Katsuki Yuuri is a young concert pianist. At least, he would be, if he hadn't failed - spectacularly - at every international competition he's ever entered. He knows in his heart he's meant to perform, but stage fright always seems to choke him at the last minute. On the night he quits as a performer, he runs into teen-heartthrob-turned-rockstar, Victor Nikiforov. *That* Victor. The one whose posters have adorned Yuuri's bedroom walls since he was ten years old. And, typically, Yuuri embarrasses himself. A few weeks later, a video of Yuuri singing one of Victor's songs goes viral, and his bubble of self-pity is blown apart by Victor's sudden arrival in Japan. He wants Yuuri to sing for him.And if Yuuri wants it too, he'll need to find something in himself he's never been able to reach before. Something Victor seems to have naturally.A spark.





	1. Prologue: Heartsong

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! So this is my first fanfic in a verrry long time and though a lot of it is written, I'm finding myself a little stumped where to take it next. Any and all suggestions gratefully received!

Katsuki Yuuri was eleven years old the last time he sang in public.

It had looked so easy when Victor performed. At ten years old, Yuuri had every magazine, had read every interview the star had ever done.

Every time Victor Nikiforov talked about performing, it was with joy.

“It feels like I’m in love,” the teenage heartthrob had said in his lilting, ridiculously perfect Japanese on a rare talk-show appearance. “It’s like the audience and I are on a journey together, and we guide each other to where we need to go.”

_I want that_ , Yuuri had thought.

Victor was fifteen, a talented musician who had been discovered by a music producer playing the guitar on a street corner in LA to support his Russian immigrant parents. Victor had been a superstar for a year – his first album, Victor, had gone platinum almost immediately.

Yuuri didn’t want any of that. He just wanted to express himself as easily as Victor did.

Victor had moved around a lot as a child, Yuuri had learnt from an interview, and he spoke half a dozen languages. He sang.

Yuuri barely spoke Japanese. He stammered. He panicked, and as he grew into a young man, it was only getting worse.

His mother had warned him that he might start getting nervous around girls, but in truth, it was everyone outside his immediate circle of family and friends who made him nervous. He felt, though, so deeply he could hardly stand it. He was moved to tears by cherry blossom and old David Bowie records. He tried to express it through his piano playing, but he always felt limited by the music. Those emotions expressed by the music weren’t his feelings.

Victor’s music was the only exception. Yuuri felt himself in his idol’s words, felt understood. Most of Victor’s music was teeny-bop, nonsensical and full of silly slang that stretched the limits of Yuuri’s English teacher’s patience when lyrics were presented to her for translation.

All but one song. It was a hidden track on the CD, and Yuuri had heard it by accident. His sister Mari had been playing the album non-stop, and while Yuuri didn’t mind it as background noise, he’d never really paid attention. And then, one weekend while Mari tidied in the onsen with their mother, he realised she’d left the CD spinning and there was a sound unlike anything he’d ever heard playing over their cheap pink stereo.

Victor sang a-cappella. He sang about feeling alone, about sadness and being tired all the time. It wasn’t anything different from other moody teen ballads, except… except it was. It felt like Victor’s fingers were wrapped around Yuuri’s heart, and tugging.

Yuuri bought his own copy of the CD. He listened to it, over and over again. He listened to it so often that he could play the melody by ear. He sang without thinking. He sang in the onsen changing rooms. He sang while walking his puppy, whom he’d named after his hero, his ears burning red with embarrassment and pleasure every time he called the dog. He sang softly. He never stammered when he sang, and his parents were sweet enough never to tell him to be quiet. He’d been quiet all his life, after all. Everyone - even Mari - liked to see him so happy.

Around that time, his piano teacher Minako took his mother aside and told her that Yuuri had true potential. He had a perfect ear, delicate, dexterous fingers, and a mathematical mind.

A conservatoire offered him a scholarship. It was more than an hour by bus, but dutifully, Yuuri travelled every day, listening to Victor on his CD player and pretending it was Rachmaninov.

There, they taught him to be quiet. To repress his nerves, his anger, his sense of fun. They made him serious and studious, until the only time he danced or sang was when he was alone and certain - absolutely - that no one would hear him. He never lost control. Ever. Or, at least, until he came in last place in the Young Virtuoso of the Year Award when he was twenty one years old. But that’s a story for another time.


	2. Never Meet Your Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Katsuki Yuuri has one of the worst nights of his life.

‘I’m done, coach,’ Yuuri said softly. He held a single red rose in an iron grip and knew its thorns were drawing blood, but he couldn’t feel a thing. ‘No more competitions.’

Celestino stubbed out his cigarette. All around them, the snows of a Moscow January swirled, and yet Yuuri’s face burnt with humiliation.

Yuuri had choked, and both he and Celestino knew it. He’d still place, certainly - his earlier performances had earned him that - but no one cared about that. Who would hire a virtuoso who couldn’t get through a performance without dropping notes, without their fingers tripping over each other?

‘I have never known anyone quite like you, Katsuki,’ Celestino said. His face was inscrutable, but Yuuri had always had a perfect ear, and he heard the sadness and resignation in his teacher’s voice. ‘You’re easily the most expressive, most technically flawless pianist I’ve ever heard. You’re desperate to perform - you’re fine in auditions, in qualifiers, and then…’

Celestino made a cutting gesture across his throat.

‘It’s like you want to fail. I don’t know what else I can do for you.’

‘I know, coach. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise to me.’ Celestino lit another cigarette and inhaled, deeply. ‘I have other students. Phichit’s young, but he has your same spark. What I don’t understand, Yuuri, is what you  _ want _ . Why did you push yourself to compete? Is it the prize money?’

Yuuri was certain his face was a deep crimson. He shook his head.

‘Then what? It clearly makes you miserable. Do your parents pressure you?’

_ No _ , Yuuri wanted to scream. They didn’t understand. They wanted him to teach music, to play weddings, to do  _ anything _ with his gift except travel the world making himself sick with nerves.

‘I have to say,’ Celestino added, as an afterthought, ‘when you’re on, you’re  _ on _ . I’ve never seen a classical musician handle the audience the way you do. They’re in the palm of your hand. It’s only when you clam up that they’re cold, and you… well, you freeze up.’

_ I get close _ , Yuuri wanted to say,  _ but it’s never exactly right _ .

He sighed. What did it matter, anyway? What he wanted was a contradiction. It was impossible, and he needed to grow up and let it go.

He shook Celestino’s hand and accepted the older man’s offer to arrange a flight to Tokyo for the next day, rather than back to Chicago.

It felt like an anticlimax, but then, Yuuri was used to nothing feeling the way he imagined it would.

He turned away and headed back into the grand doors of the hotel. The most beautiful hotel he’d ever seen, inches from the Bolshoi, was playing host to this latest competition - Yuuri couldn’t even remember the name of the prize, only that he had wanted it.

His room for the night was covered by the organisers, though, so he intended to order room service and eat until he stopped feeling hollow.

He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor, and the doors were closing when a man’s voice called out in Russian.

Purely on instinct, Yuuri grabbed the elevator door to stop it closing, and a tall, slim man with a black hoodie pulled up around his ears and oversized sunglasses lunged through the gap.

The tall man gave a breath of relief when the doors slid shut, and leant across Yuuri - uncaring of his personal space - to hit the button for the penthouse.

He smelled like snow, male sweat and - so faintly it could have been Yuuri’s imagination - cherry blossom.

The stranger said something jovial in Russian. At Yuuri’s blank expression, he took off his sunglasses, and blinked at Yuuri with the biggest ice-blue eyes he’d ever seen.

In real life, that is. Yuuri had seen them plenty of times on posters, TV, and the internet.

‘Vicchan,’ Yuuri breathed, and instantly wanted the floor to swallow him.

_ Vicchan _ had been what he’d called his poodle. His sweet, loving little toy poodle, who hadn’t understood why Yuuri was never at home, and who had been killed by a hit-and-run driver earlier in the week.

Yuuri’s sister had told him the news minutes before he was supposed to go on stage to perform.

Victor Nikiforov, former teen idol and lead singer of  _ Eros _ , beamed at him.

It felt like a nuclear bomb had gone off in Yuuri’s brain.

In neat, faintly accented Japanese, Victor said, ‘Yes! Have we met?’

‘N-no.’ Yuuri fought down the urge to cry and wrap his arms around this man. ‘I mean… I’m a fan.’

The smile grew even brighter. Victor lowered his hood to reveal straight, fine silver hair that fell to his chin - he’d cut off his famous waist-length locks the year before, live on stage in Montreal.

‘Thank you!’ Everything the man said sounded like it had an exclamation mark after it. ‘What brings you to Moscow?’

‘I… piano. I play piano.’

Victor’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s great! You were in the contest? I wanted to go, but I had a thing.’

A thing. He’d been performing in the Bolshoi, across the street. It had been broadcast all over the world and Yuuri had been intending to watch it online while he got lowkey drunk in his room and cried.

The elevator  _ pinged  _ for Yuuri’s floor. A wave of relief and sorrow, so muddled Yuuri couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, crested over his head.

This was the best and worst day of his life and Victor wouldn’t even remember it.

The Russian held out his hand for a handshake and hit Yuuri - who had panicked and dropped a low, Japanese bow - in the head.

Yuuri’s glasses fell to the floor. Victor ducked down to grab them at the same moment that Yuuri did, and their heads smacked together with a soft  _ thunk _ .

Yuuri snatched up his glasses, apologised in three languages, and darted out of the elevator, his heart hammering.

‘Wait! Can I… sign something?’

Yuuri didn’t stop running until he was in bed, under the covers, and hidden away from everyone and everything.

The next morning, he was on a flight back to Tokyo, hungover and with swollen eyes. He’d slept for about fifteen minutes in total, and his search history was mostly misspellings of the query, ‘ _ Does Victor Nikiforov often offer to sign autographs? _ ’

He was somewhere over China when the news broke, fast asleep with a Bollywood movie playing on his little aeroplane screen.

He wouldn’t find out until late the next day, when he finally got off the train in his hometown, and found that the entire place was plastered with images of his face.

Yuuri looked around at the thousands of Yuuris - 18-year-old Yuuris, to be precise, in a tuxedo and about to win his first and only international competition.

Then he looked at his friend and former teacher, Minako, who stood in front of him, jittery with excitement, holding up a banner with his name on it.

‘Whyyyyyyyy,’ he moaned.

She just screamed and pulled him into a tight, breathless hug.

Minako was a talker. Always had been, so it wasn’t a surprise that they were already driving down the road to the onsen before she thought to ask why he’d come home on a day’s notice, rather than returning to Chicago, where he’d graduated from his postgraduate studies and had planned to keep working.

‘I quit,’ he said. ‘No more performing.’

She glanced over at him. ‘Is this because of Victor?’

Yuuri turned to her so fast he hurt his neck. Massaging it, he said, ‘um… what?’

‘Victor. He quit  _ Eros _ yesterday, after that big show in Russia. You mean you haven’t seen it?’

Yuuri pulled out his phone and turned it on. Sure enough, it was lit up with messages - from his sister Mari, from his roommate Phichit, from his best friend Yuuko.

He found an article and read it in silence.

 

_ Can Eros Survive without Victor? _

 

_ Former teen idol Victor Nikiforov today shocked the world by announcing his intention to quit  _ Eros _ , the platinum-selling pop-rock group he - and bandmate Chris Giacometti - founded at just eighteen years old. _

_ ‘ _ Eros _ represents a time in my life I’ll always be proud of _ , _ ’ Victor said early this morning at an impromptu press conference in Moscow. ‘I believe in fate, and in listening when the universe gives you a sign. I haven’t listened to my heart in a long time. Now, I think I’d like to take some time and explore myself as an artist.’ _

_ The news appeared to stun Victor’s bandmates, who were seen leaving a Moscow hotel later that day. Bandmate Yuri Plietsky, as the newest and youngest member of the band, seemed furious when asked for comment. _

_ ‘He’s a selfish pig,’ Plietsky told our reporter. ‘Do you want me to put that in writing?’ _

 

Yuuri blinked down at his phone screen. Plietsky was so… cute, on-screen. Who knew he was such a venomous little man?

‘Well? Is that the reason? Minako pressed.

‘No.’ Yuuri took a deep breath. ‘I’m done, Minako-sensei. Whatever I’ve been looking for… I don’t think it exists. It’s time to grow up.’

Minako shot him a concerned look, but for once in her life, she didn’t say anything more.

She must have explained the situation to his parents and sister, because once he’d unpacked his bag in his old room, they greeted him without any intrusive questions.

He ate pork katsu. He slept for fourteen hours straight.

He took a bath, and he prayed at Vicchan’s little shrine, and then he listened to  _ Eros’ _ latest album on loop until he was too dehydrated to cry anymore.

After two days, he ventured into town and let his childhood friend Yuuko wrap him in her arms.

‘I’m so sorry, Yuuri,’ she said into his neck. ‘For everything. Vicchan and  _ Eros _ and the competition.’

Her husband Takeshi - a meathead car mechanic whose one redeeming quality was his adoration of Yuuko - patted Yuuri on the back awkwardly.

‘These things come in threes,’ he said. ‘You’ll see, buddy. Good luck is just around the corner.’

Yuuri let Yuuko’s life flow around him. Her crazy daughters, the constant flow of her piano students in and out of her home, Takeshi muttering about any of a hundred pet-peeves.

‘Yuuri, I have to go to the shops. Do you mind if I leave you here with the girls? I’ll be back and make us some dinner.’

Yuuri and the girls - Yuuko’s six-year-old triplets - regarded each other with wary respect. He nodded, and before he’d had time to consider his strategy, he was left alone with them.

He tried to remember their names. Something to do with skating? He and Yuuko had always watched ice skating on TV when they were little, mesmerised by the costumes and music.

Lutz, Axel and Loop. He smiled. The names sounded as ridiculous in Japanese as in English.

The girls snapped him out of his reverie.

‘You’re a musician,’ Lutz said.

‘Yes.’

‘Like Victor Nikiforov,’ Loop said.

‘No… not like that.’

‘You can’t sing?’ Axel asked.

‘I can. I don’t.’

‘Why not?’ Lutz asked.

Yuuri’s head started to hurt. ‘I don’t like performing in public.’

‘We’re not public.’

‘We’re only little.’

‘Play us a Victor song.’

‘Pleeeease?’

‘Pleeeease Yuuri-san?’

‘PLEEEASE?’

Yuuri had lost track of which child had spoken. They all looked alike, and their screeching was identical to the point where it was starting to feel like they were annoying him in stereo.

‘If I do, will you go play with… dolls? Or something?’

Three small heads nodded simultaneously.

He stood and walked to the piano Yuuko used to teach her students. He tentatively pressed middle-C - it was in tune, at least.

He sat down and cracked his knuckles. His fingers on the ivories felt familiar and restless.

He played a few notes of a lullaby.

The chorus of infants groaned. ‘NOOOO.’

He looked back at them. ‘What?’

‘Not baby music. Victor song.’

Yuuri sighed, scrunched his eyes shut, and began playing from memory.

After a few bars, the groaning started again.

‘NOOOO.’

Yuuri stopped. ‘What now?’

‘You need to singggggg.’

Yuuri’s heart skipped a beat. ‘I don’t sing. I told you.’

‘We don’t know what song it is unless you sing! Just one song, Yuuri-san. We don’t mind if you stink.’

He let out a choked laugh. They didn’t mind.

He thought about the last week of his life. Giving up his dream, meeting his idol, flying home to eat humble-pie and admit defeat.

Perhaps singing to little girls wasn’t so terrifying.

He began playing again, and in the moment before he thought they might start shouting again, he sang.

‘ _ I don’t know if it’s tonight or already tomorrow,’ _ he sang. His voice cracked, but he grew in confidence as no one yelled at him.  _ ‘It’s hard to know when there’s no moon to shine. I don’t know if this is right, if I should follow the path I’ve been given, whether it’s mine.’ _

_ ‘I’m tired in the mornings, and I think it’s ‘cause all my dreams are better than real life. When the road is long and straight and narrow, the horizon feels just out of sight.’ _

The verses spoke of loneliness. Of wanting to share passion and interests with someone, but feeling as though your authentic self wasn’t welcomed by anyone you showed it to.

And then… the chorus. Yuuri’s voice swelled, out of practice but strong and clear, and he never sang this loudly, even when he was alone. It came from somewhere within him that was bruised and aching.

_ ‘And then there’s you. Just out of sight. And then there’s you. Baby, you’re just right. We’ll make it through, and then someday soon, it’ll be you - and me - and us.’ _

He could have stopped then, but it felt incomplete, and he’d forgotten about why he was doing this - the triplet gremlins he was trying to appease.

At some point, he’d started singing with every last ounce of useless, aimless hope in his heart.

He sang it all. Every verse, every chorus.

The final note lingered. Yuuri’s hands stilled, and he ducked his head.

‘You should sing more,’ one of the girls said, matter-of-fact. ‘I like your voice. It’s strange, but nice.’

He swallowed, hard, and turned. In a flurry of movement, all three girls shoved their hands behind their backs.

Yuuri frowned at them and opened his mouth to ask what they’d been doing, when Yuuko’s voice called out from the front door.

The girls disappeared and Yuuri wandered, feeling slightly dazed, to keep Yuuko company as she cooked. 

The next day, he went for a long walk up to the samurai castle and left his phone at home. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, and have them ask him what he was doing with his life.

All of which meant that when he arrived home and Mari started screaming, he had no idea what she was talking about.

‘-viral, Yuuri! Everyone in the world found out you’re freaking Mr Japan’s Got Talent before your own sister!’

He stared at her and tried to process. ‘Viral,’ he repeated.

‘A million hits in 24 hours. Someone I went to high school with posted it on my wall.’

‘A video. Of what?’

‘Of you, idiot.’ She pulled out her phone, and Yuuri dutifully looked down at the little screen.

Five minutes later and he was having a panic attack on the floor.

‘Breathe, Yuuri. Listen to my breathing. You’re ok, little brother. You’re ok.’ Mari’s voice was coming from a very long way away. Her hand rubbed circled on his back. ‘It’s ok, Yuuri.’

He gasped and wiped roughly at his tears. ‘It’s not ok. Everyone… everyone saw me making a fool of myself.’

‘No! Oh, Yuuri, no.’ Gently, Mari wrapped an arm around him. ‘Everyone loves it. Your voice… it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard. Everyone is all broken up about  _ Eros _ , and then there’s you, singing one of Victor’s old songs and with so much passion, so much love, and your arrangement… it’s so sad, and hopeful. You know that song’s famous with his fans? It’s the only one of his old teen-idol songs he wrote himself. You reminded everyone that they loved Victor before  _ Eros _ , and he needs to follow his heart.’

Yuuri looked up at his normally stoic sister. She glared at him. ‘I loved him first, Yuuri. You’re not the only one with email alerts set up for his name.’

‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I just… it’s hard to picture you as a fangirl.’

She laughed. ‘You, too.’

They sat in silence for a moment.

‘I met him. In Moscow.’

Mari gaped, then punched him in the arm. ‘You’re joking.’

‘No. I… I called him Vicchan.’

She chuckled. ‘Well. Let’s hope no talk-show host decides to show him the video and he recognises you.’

Yuuri promptly forgot how to breathe, and by the time Mari had calmed him down, Yuuko had joined them, full of apologies for her daughters and their video.

‘They put everything they like on there,’ Yuuko said apologetically. ‘Mostly it’s been videos of snails until now.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve been on the internet before.’

Mari snorted. ‘Yeah, classical piano videos with a thousand views.’

Yuuko made a cutting motion across her throat, and Mari retreated back into the onsen, saying something about washing the towels.

Yuuko’s hand on Yuuri’s was soft and warm. ‘You never told her what happened at school?’

‘What was the point? By the time I realised those boys were idiots, they’d done their damage. I’ve never been able to get the courage up to sing in public again.’

‘You sang for the girls.’

‘It was… different.’

‘You have a gift, Yuuri. Do you know how many videos there are of people covering Victor’s songs, or  _ Eros’ _ songs?’ She smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘So. Many. But none of them have connected with people like yours.’

He glanced at her. ‘Really?’

‘I know you’re not meant to read the comments, but Yuuri - people love you. They think you’re beautiful, that your voice is beautiful.’

Yuuri’s face burnt. He said nothing.

‘I’ll make them take it down if you want me to.’

Yuuri hesitated, then shook his head, tapping into a reserve of courage he hadn’t realised he held.

‘Mari said it’s making people feel better about  _ Eros _ . Maybe… maybe it’ll help Victor, in some way.’

Yuuko kissed his cheek and left him to it.

Yuuri barely slept that night. There were posters of Victor all over his walls, and they stared at him with ice-blue eyes he now knew not to be photoshopped.

He’d done it. He’d connected with people. It wasn’t the way he’d wanted, but it felt good - not as good as if he could see their faces, but the idea that people wanted to watch him sing made him feel a tiny glimpse of what he’d been chasing.

It didn’t mean anything, but if his dream had to die, what a beautiful way for it to go.

In the next few days, he killed time and avoided people. He took long walks before the family was out of bed. He listened to music and tried not to think about anything.

When he came home later that week, Mari was saying something. He pulled out an earbud and stared at her.

‘Sorry… what?’

She rolled her eyes and gave a small, strangled scream. ‘VICTOR,’ she said. ‘IN THE ONSEN.’

He smiled. ‘Very funny.’

Yuuri’s mother drifted over. She had a dazed expression. ‘He’s a very nice boy,’ she said, and giggled. Yuuri had never heard his sensible, hard-working mother  _ giggle _ . ‘Very handsome.’

Yuuri didn’t remember walking through the changing room and into the onsen. The steam rose up from the baths, and sure enough, there was a willowy, very naked white man relaxing in the water with his back to Yuuri.

Yuuri made a small, strangled sound, and the global superstar who’d invaded his parents’ bathhouse turned around.

Victor’s pale skin was pink from the heat. His silvery hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes glittered ridiculously, like he was the hero in an anime.

His easy smile made Yuuri feel like he was going to faint.

‘Yuuri-san!’ Victor exclaimed. ‘I was looking for you, but then I realised I hadn’t taken a bath since LA, and… I hope you don’t mind.’

Yuuri said nothing. In that moment, he would have been far more capable of sprouting wings and flying away than of saying a single coherent word.

Victor’s smile flickered. The light in his eyes dimmed, and Yuuri wanted to cry.

‘You’ve had a strange week, haven’t you?’

Yuuri thought about the comments, the requests from TV shows around the world, the calls from agents and talent competitions.

He nodded.

Victor beamed at him again. ‘I recognised you, when someone sent me the video. And I just knew! I knew it was fate.’

Victor rose, water sloughing from his body, until he stood knee-deep in the baths.

Yuuri choked on his tongue.

Victor Nikiforov, extremely beautiful and unselfconsciously naked, held out his hand to Yuuri, more as if he planned to lead Yuuri into the sunset than to shake his hand.

‘Katsuki Yuuri, I’m your new producer.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts in the comments, lovelies! xx


	3. No, Really.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Victor gets to know the Katsuki family.

‘I don’t understand,’ Victor said. ‘Why won’t he come out of his room?’

‘He’s starstruck,’ Mari replied. ‘Give him some time.’

Victor frowned down at his pork katsudon. It was his  _ second _ ! No manager to make snide comments about leather pants and photoshoots. No personal trainer hovering nearby to protect their hard work and make Victor feel bad for every morsel that passed his lips.

He pushed the bowl away. Beside him, his brown standard poodle Makkachin whined softly, and Victor deftly used his chopsticks to flick a piece of breaded meat onto the floor.

‘He’s… shy?’ he asked Mari.

Victor was familiar with the concept, though he’d never really experienced it, himself. People, in Victor’s experience, were wonderful and wanted him to be happy.

He wanted Yuuri to be happy! So why wouldn’t the younger man  _ let _ him  _ make _ him happy?

Mari laughed. ‘Yes, very. He’s always been a quiet kid.’

Victor thought about that video. About that voice.

It had been anything but quiet. Yuuri didn’t hold anything back when he sang.

‘Victor. Why are you here?’ Mari asked.

Victor changed his mind, hauled his bowl back towards him, and ate as if savouring Mrs Katsuki’s cooking would persuade Yuuri to come out of his room and swoon into Victor’s arms, weak with gratitude and joy.

He’d pictured it in great detail on the flight over.

He had  _ not _ expected the younger man to flee and hide.

Which, maybe he should have? After all, the last time they’d met, Yuuri had fled, too.

‘I wanted to spend some time with him,’ Victor said honestly, around a mouthful of rice. ‘And… I want to be a producer. I write songs! Excellent songs. But I don’t want to perform them.’

‘Why not?’ Mari asked.

Victor shrugged. ‘I’m famous for being famous. People would listen to me sing in the shower at this point. Where’s the challenge in that? But if I can find someone unknown, and the audience still loves the music… then I know the songs are good, whether or not I’m behind the mic.’

‘You want Yuuri to sing them.’

Victor looked up at Mari. She looked sceptical.

‘He gets horrible stagefright.’

‘I know. I’ve seen the videos.’

‘He’s a brilliant performer, when he’s on.’

‘I know that, too.’

Mari sighed. ‘I don’t know, Victor. I think he’s always wanted to be a performer, deep down, but he’s never been able to break through his anxiety. What makes you think you’ll be the key?’

Victor beamed. He heard a movement behind his chair, but kept facing Mari as he said: ‘because I believe in him. I know he’s a superstar. And I can be very persuasive!’

Mari looked over the top of his head and smiled. ‘Yuuri. Come and sit down, little brother. He doesn’t bite.’

Victor felt Yuuri hesitate, then drop to his knees on to the cushion at Victor’s left.

Victor was unreasonably proud of him. He’d expected Yuuri to sit as far away from him as he could get.

‘I’m sorry for running away, Victor-san,’ Yuuri said softly. His voice broke slightly on Victor’s name, and to his mortification, Victor felt a blush rise on his cheeks.

The younger man was so  _ cute _ . It was obscene that Victor wasn’t allowed to hug him.

‘It’s alright! I once tried to shake a girl’s hand and she threw up on me!’ Victor said cheerfully. ‘And another time, a man with a backstage pass hyperventilated and one of the roadies had to call an ambulance!’

‘See, Yuuri? You didn’t even make his top ten embarrassing reactions.’ Mari stood, smiled at them both, and cracked her knuckles. ‘If you two will excuse me, some of us have a bath-house to run.’

Victor turned in his seat, ready to continue the list of times people had embarrassed themselves in front of him, and found that he was close enough to Yuuri to count the other man’s eyelashes.

He opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

Yuuri blinked at him from behind wire-rimmed glasses. When Victor continued to stare in silence, Yuuri seemed to muster his courage.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ he said. ‘I’m a classical musician. I’ve never played popular music.’

Victor swallowed, hard, and shook his head. ‘I’m a popular musician. I’ve never mentored or produced a new artist. We’ll learn together!’

A pause, then, ‘how do you know this is what I want?’

_ Good _ , Victor thought.  _ He didn’t say ‘if’. _

‘I’ve watched every video of your performances. I’ve seen you with an audience. You’re an artist, Yuuri. You’re…’ Victor waved his hands, officially at the edge of his knowledge of Japanese. Two years living in Tokyo as a small child suddenly seemed a very long way away.

‘You can speak English,’ Yuuri said softly. His accent was slight, his voice melodic.

Victor wanted to kiss him.

‘Unique,’ Victor concluded, lamely, in the same language. ‘You’re unique. And you’re in love with it.’

Yuuri’s ears went pink.

‘Why me?’

Victor hesitated, then said: ‘you connected with my music. I was going to wait, look around, try and find someone to sing for me, but… why wait? You’re perfect.’

Yuuri’s blush extended to the apples of his cheeks.

Makkachin, finished with his pork, gracefully stood, walked to Yuuri, and collapsed on the pianist’s lap.

Yuuri let out a soft  _ oof _ at the weight of him, hesitated, then wrapped his arms around the dog and buried his face in his fur.

Victor looked at them both. ‘Your mother said that you had a dog like Makka.’

‘He was a miniature poodle.’

‘You miss him.’

Yuuri looked up. If he was surprised by Victor’s sudden seriousness, or his complete inability to make small-talk, he didn’t show it.

‘Of course. I abandoned him. To chase a dream that I couldn’t make real.’ He swallowed, hard, and to Victor’s horror his dark eyes suddenly swam with tears.

‘What was the dream, Yuuri?’

Yuuri blinked. A fat tear rolled down his cheek. ‘To be a pianist.’

Victor shook his head. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘You wanted to perform. To give to the audience. You wanted to be loved, Yuuri. There’s no shame in saying it.’

Another tear slid down Yuuri’s cheek, and this time, Victor couldn’t resist. He caught it with his thumb, rubbed the heel of his hand over Yuuri’s soft skin.

‘You chose the wrong direction. You need words to articulate what you feel.’

‘I’m no good with words.’ Yuuri’s voice quivered. Victor dropped his hand, and felt Yuuri’s exhalation - of relief, or of loss?

‘That’s alright. That’s why I’m here.’

They sat in silence for a moment. Victor was loud, most of the time, but he didn’t feel any particular need to rush Yuuri.

They had time.

‘What would we do next?’

Victor resisted the urge to punch the air.

‘I understand there’s a recording studio in town.’

‘There was a local radio station when I was a kid, at the back of the library. I’m not sure anyone’s used that space in years.’

‘Can you get someone to fix it up?’

Yuuri considered. ‘My friend Yuuko is the librarian, and her husband is pretty good with cars. They might be able to sort it out for us. I’m not sure there’s enough room for a piano, though.’

‘That’s alright. I brought keyboards!’

Victor leapt to his feet, disturbing Makka and sending Yuuri tumbling over onto the mat floor. He headed off down the corridor, to the little room Yuuri’s mother, Hiroko, had assigned him.

He heard the soft padding of Yuuri’s socks behind him and smiled, sliding open the door to reveal what he’d brought with him from Moscow.

Yuuri gasped.

‘You brought… everything?’

Victor considered the boxes stacked three-high and on every available surface. ‘I didn’t bring a piano.’ He whirled around a beamed at Yuuri. ‘It’s getting late, but I covered the bed in boxes... shall we have a sleepover?’

Yuuri blanched. ‘You want to see my room?’

_ What a peculiar, interesting man _ . ‘Well, yes. Mainly the bed, but yes.’

If possible, Yuuri lost even more colour in his cheeks and before Victor could say anything else, he’d disappeared around the corner.

Victor stood, confused, as his poodle gave an excited bark and took off after Yuuri. With a shrug, he followed them both, and was just in time to see Yuuri rip a massive poster down from above his bed.

A massive poster of Victor, back in his teen idol days, with long silver hair, wearing a black silk slip dress and scarlet lipstick, the masculinity of his shoulders and chest juxtaposed with high, fine cheekbones and feminine attire.

He’d always liked that poster. It had gotten his second album banned in fifteen countries.

Including Russia. His father had thought the whole thing was hilarious.

‘You don’t need to take it down. You said you were a fan,’ Victor said.

Yuuri was facing away from him, but still, Victor saw his ears turn red. His hands stilled on the poster.

‘I’ve never had anyone in here,’ he murmured, barely audible. ‘I was away, and… it’s a kid’s room.’

‘It’s got a double bed,’ Victor said happily. He placed a hand on Yuuri’s waist to steady the younger man, whose knees seemed to be failing him.

Yuuri dropped onto the bed with a  _ thud _ and Victor climbed up beside him, resting his back against the wall. A moment later, Makka joined them, joining their laps like an enormous blanket.

After a moment, Yuuri shuffled enough to lean on the wall beside him, and Victor basked in the comfort of the moment.

Yuuri spooked easily, but he calmed quickly. That boded well.

‘Would you sing for me, Yuuri?’ he asked in Japanese. Then, in English so his vocabulary wouldn’t fail him, ‘We can start our relationship with a lullaby.’

Yuuri tensed. ‘I don’t sing in front of people.’

A beat passed. ‘Why not?’

Yuuri hung his head. His strait black hair fell over the frames of his glasses like a curtain over the final bow.

‘I went to a conservatoire not far from here, towards Osaka. I got a scholarship, but the bus, the accomodation… it was expensive. And my parents were so proud. My tutors told me to chose - vocals, or piano. They made it clear that only idiot boys chose vocals so young, before their voices break, and that I would lose the chance for piano forever if I waited.’

Victor watched him curiously. ‘There was no chance to sing for fun?’

‘Choirs. By the time I got the courage to audition, my voice was breaking.’

‘But you sang on your own. Your voice has been trained, Yuuri, you can’t hide that kind of range and stamina. You never faltered on a note or hesitated.’

‘In my room. In the woods. Never where there were people to hear me. I read books and did vocal exercises. Singing makes me feel calm - I studied it when I needed a break from my  _ arpeggios _ , when exams and performing made me nervous.’

‘Are you calm now?’

Yuuri laughed, peeked out from under his lashes. Victor’s chest felt tight.

‘No, Victor-sensei. I’m not calm.’

_ Sensei _ . Was that what Victor was to be, then? A teacher?

‘Then sing for me. Let it calm you.’

A beat of silence, and then… something completely unexpected.

_ ‘Still don’t know what I was waiting for,’  _ Yuuri sang,  _ ‘and my time was running wild, a million dead-end streets and… every time I thought I’d got it made, it seemed the taste was not so sweet.’ _

Bowie. What a strange, wonderful, fascinating man Victor had chosen, who played piano sonatas like they were battle cries and sang Bowie like a prayer.

‘ _ Turn and face the strange. Ch-ch-changes. _ ’ At the silliness of singing the stutter, Yuuri smiled, and Victor answered it with a helpless, broad beam.

When the last notes of the song faded, Victor nudged Yuuri with his shoulder. ‘I know you don’t have faith in yourself. I’ll have it for both of us, until you’re ready.’

Yuuri hesitated, and then nodded. ‘I want them to hear me.’

‘They will.’ Victor flopped over and cuddled into Yuuri’s bedding unselfconsciously. He cracked open one eye, and saw Yuuri staring down at him, surprise and something unnamed in his big black eyes. ‘Just sleep, Yuuri. I’ll protect you.’

And then, confident that his orders would be obeyed, Victor drifted off into blissful, dreamless sleep.


End file.
